


Berry Stained

by bloodandcream



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dean is anti produce and Sam is a little shit, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Humor, M/M, Mild feeder kink, Oral Fixation, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-29 00:02:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8468116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandcream/pseuds/bloodandcream
Summary: Thin pretty bow of pink lips is quick to stain berry red, bleeding from the middle where it’s darkest, that soft open place Dean just wants to crawl in and live.“Do you want one?”Sam rudely cuts into his daydreams.“What?”Dean is very articulate.Finally, Sam turns his head and blinks down at Dean, holds a berry gently between thumb and forefinger.“You’re staring kind of hard dude. If you want one, just ask.”





	

Farmer’s markets are stupid. There’s all these smiling people bustling around under the sunshine, toting their reusable eco-friendly canvases, pawing at vegetables.

It’s just not natural.

If it doesn’t come soaked in grease and wrapped in wax paper, in a tin he can pry the top off, cellophane cradled with a sticker on top, or microwave-ready – then Dean generally doesn’t bother with it. He doesn’t have a kitchen, hell most of the motels they stay at barely have functioning fridge’s.

There is nothing appealing about a vegetable that has not been soaked in butter or chopped into a dish that’s spiced and fat loaded so that you can’t even taste it.

Don’t even get Dean started on fruit.

Sam’s happy, though. Overgrown, hippy of a man who had dragged Dean out saying ‘oh but one of the vic’s families works here Dean’ and ‘it’s like a ten minute walk from the motel let’s just go Dean’ and ‘I’ll give you a blow job later Dean’.

Who bribes someone to go to a farmer’s market with sexual favors?

At least they did get solid info from Mrs. Porter. Turned out the ghost Dean was suspecting was buried under her maiden name that she unofficially reclaimed after her husbands very untimely death. A cheeseburger for dinner to wash off the health funk, one salt n’ burn, and a very dirty blow job in the Impala later and they’d called it a successful hunt.

With no where in particular to be, they put another night down on the motel room to dig up some research and catch up on sleep.

Sam’s got his little stash of produce sitting all bright and happy on the dulled once-blue formica countertop in the kitchenette. He’s been munching through it all yesterday, raw, jaw working with a noisy crunch as he scrolled articles on his laptop. He doesn’t even put salt on it, or dressing. Dean’s not one hundred percent convinced this is the kid he raised.

Mid-morning now, Dean’s thighs and arms still pleasantly sore from shoveling dirt all night, the two of them are stretched out on the clean bed and watching re-runs of the Price is Right. With Bob Barker, the one true host. Dean had made sure to eat an extra sausage and cheese biscuit that morning to make up for Sam only having one and an assortment of his precious organic fruit. Boxers and tees for the both of them, there’s a collar of red-purple bruises around Sam’s neck that are Dean-mouth-shaped. With the window open to air out the sex-funk, a breeze keeps pushing the curtains in and the sun slants along Sam’s long body, lean and muscle-packed and his rabbit habits baffle Dean even more.

Commercial break. Sam gets up to piss, doesn’t bother to close the door and Dean has way more disgusting habits than that. But then his brother putters around the kitchenette, rinsing off a ‘snack’ – more like torture – and when Sam comes back he sits cross legged with a folded paper towel of rinsed raspberries carefully cradled in his giant hands. Laying them on his knee, Sam leans against the bare wall, mustard and brown daisies framing his face.

The show comes back from commercial, excited screaming and Dean hears the tell-tale noise of Plinko but he’s got his eyes glued to Sam. Has to look up from his reclined position to watch as Sam daintily – really, there’s no other word to describe it – pops a single raspberry at a time into his mouth. Licks the tap water still clinging to the berries from his fignertips. Lips curved up in the corners and eyes most assiduously fixed to the tv.

Motherfucker is playing Dean.

Well, really, when is he not?

Thin pretty bow of pink lips is quick to stain berry red, bleeding from the middle where it’s darkest, that soft open place Dean just wants to crawl in and live.

“Do you want one?”

Sam rudely cuts into his daydreams.

“What?”

Dean is very articulate.

Finally, Sam turns his head and blinks down at Dean, holds a berry gently between thumb and forefinger.

“You’re staring kind of hard dude. If you want one, just ask.”

Dean shoves himself up to sit next to Sam, shoulder to shoulder. It still rankles how often he has to look up to his little brother – except, when he’s the one on top with Sam all spread-limbed and melting into the bed under Dean’s touch.

“Those are supposed to be covered in syrup and stuffed in a pie shell.”

Dean makes sure to point to exaggerate, mouth turned down in disapproval at Sam’s health food.

Sam sticks his tongue out a little and slides a berry in slowly, curling his lips around his fingers and he’s smiling around it.

“Just try one,” Sam tells him, words wet and muffled around the berry in his mouth.

Dean glares, but Sam plucks up another berry and holds it against Dean’s lips, and Dean is never one to deny his brother. Especially if it involves Sam putting things in Dean’s mouth, and how his eyes darken and how out the corner of Dean’s eyes he can see the thin-worn cotton of Sam’s boxers tenting.

So two can play at that game.

Leaning into Sam’s space, bowed leg pressed along Sam’s as he settles a hand on top of a warm – fucking rock hard – thigh, Dean slowly parts his lips and darts his tongue out to swipe at Sam’s finger. The raspberry has a weird almost hairy texture that Dean is not fond of – sucking on his brother’s monster balls does not at all bother him in regards to hair but come on man not on his food – and Sam’s thumb lingers on the swell of Dean’s lip as he bites down. Bursting tart and juicy in his mouth, Dean’s more interested in sucking Sam’s thumb deeper than relishing the flavor.

The acerbic taste of cheap soap doesn’t mean jack to Dean when he scrapes his teeth along Sam’s thumb, sucks it down to the web, watches his brother’s pupils dilate and lips part on a soft groan.

Sam is so fucking easy.

Long fingers curling under Dean’s chin as he sucks on Sam’s thumb, Sam presses against Dean’s tongue and his mouth falls open wide in accommodating response, saliva pooling behind his teeth. There’s muffled excitement still static-loud from the cheap tv and Dean flails a hand at the nightstand behind him, smacks the remote and fumbles the volume higher before muting it, all with Sam still thumb fucking his mouth.

Sometimes, Sam prods at him. Opens him up and looks. Makes him wait. His mouth and his ass, his body, spreads him out and stares. Being observed like that sets Dean to squirming, somehow self-conscious under his brother’s scrutiny and cockily preening at the silent praise at the same time.

Sam drags his thumb over Dean’s lower molars, curves around the front and pushes back in, slowly, dipping his thumb down between the gum and cheek and dragging back over. It’s fucking weird, and strangely intense, and Dean just sits there for it.

When Sam pulls his hand back, Dean’s on him. Two hands to Sam’s shoulders as he shoves and slings a leg over his brother’s lap to straddle him, bringing his weight down and his dick’s making a move to tear out of his boxers when something wet bursts between them in a loud squelch.

“My raspberries!”

Sam, the girl, looks horribly stricken and Dean lifts up onto his knees to see that he has sat down smack on top of the small pile of raspberries.

“Shit.”

Hazel eyes narrowing, broad hands grip Dean’s waist and Sam hefts him up to flip him onto his back. Carefully setting aside the paper towel now sodden with crushed berries, Sam shoves Dean’s legs wide and kneels between, stripping off his boxers with a rough yank. Dean, trying to shimmy out of his t-shirt, gets it about up to his pits when Sam digs his fingers into a thigh and pushes Dean’s leg up folded to his chest. Diving down, Sam licks a stripe from his ass-cheek to his knee.

There’s a little red-sweet juice on his skin but come on, Sam’s just looking for excuses when he doesn’t need any.

Traffic rolls by on the freeway outside, background hum rising and falling with the billow of curtains in the breeze, soft-hush voices of other patrons and gravel under car tires, every point of noise and action vying for Dean’s at-alert attention, but all his focus right now is on the clench of Sam’s teeth into that tender spot at the back of his knee. It’s ticklish at the same time that it plucks at some thread thrumming right to his groin and Dean has no idea why behind his knees is an erotic spot but Sam likes to lock in on it when he’s being a little shit.

Palming his hard dick and squirming down into messy rumpled sheets, Dean stares at the water stains marking the popcorn textured ceiling and contemplates his existence.

When Sam yanks his other leg up and starts attacking the soft spot behind the knee there too, Dean twists his head on the pillow and apologizes not so regretfully to the sad mushy pile of squashed raspberries Sam had set aside. Sam’s still got his shirt and boxers on, the fucker, and the flop of his messy hair across his forehead shadows his eyes as he braces his hands on Dean’s thighs and slides his mouth lower. That’s more like it.

White teeth flashing in a broad smile, Sam looks like he’s gonna devour Dean as studiously as a precious raspberry, red-stained lips leaving a trail of mouth-bites down the pale insides of Dean’s thighs. Letting his dick go so it can metronome swing across his lower belly, Dean stretches his arms above his head lazy, swiping the pillow out and tossing it aside, arching his back up because he can tease as good as Sam - better than, let’s be honest, Dean’s always been more of a slut - and Sam rewards that with a low groan that’s stifled into the crease of Dean’s hip.

Dean would tell his brother to take the shirt off, but it would mean that mouth moving farther from the objective, so Dean is perfectly content to watch the flex of strong shoulders under faded gray cotton. Sam still skirts a wide berth around Dean’s straining cock, leaving spit-slick trails over the slope of his belly and kissing the dip of his navel, pretty eyes blinking up at Dean and Dean doesn’t whine for it, he rocks his hips up and grinds his dick against the warm skin of Sam’s chest, his neck, Dean doesn’t care. Sam’d complain if he knew Dean was smearing a string of precome into his hair, but hey, ignorance is bliss.

“C’mon, sweetheart, you really gonna make me beg for it?”

Maybe Dean isn’t above begging, not when Sam’s nuzzling a smooth cheek against his balls, nose nudging the base of his dick, and seriously.

“Beg for what?”

Sam asks with a faux naivety that’s startlingly darling.

“Jesus, stop rubbing my junk like a cat and suck my dick.”

Sam presses his forehead into Dean’s thigh and his shoulders shake with a quiet laugh. Berry stained lips wide on a smile as he lowers them to Dean’s cock, Sam swirls his tongue around the head before sucking it into his mouth and bobbing shallowly. One hand closed loosely around the base, Sam takes him apart slow and teasing, sinking bit by bit further down until Dean’s body is locked tense in complete and utter focus and his toes curl around nothing because Sam’s still got his legs shoved up high. The silk heat of his brother’s greedy mouth is worth going to a farmer’s market for. If they had a permanent address he’d send his brother monthly fruit baskets.

Dean’s a good brother, and he’s really too indulgent of Sam. It’s easy to rile him up, and hard to make him snap, but when he’s shaking right on the edge of his release as Sam’s throat flutters around him, when Sam pulls up with a sigh, Dean’s done playing nice.

Twisting out of Sam’s hold and lowering his legs to wrap around the inviting dip of Sam’s waist, Dean squeezes tight and rolls them, Sam going easy and his shirt riding up his chest. Yanking his boxers down just enough to get his cock out, Dean pins him down and slots their hips together, rutting against the hard planes of Sam’s abs, grinding with sharp little snaps of his hips.

Curling over him, Dean gets a hold of Sam’s hands when they move to touch, press his wrists to the bed because now it’s Dean’s turn to take. And what he wants is the red that spider-webs out along the cracks of Sam’s lips, tongue dark with it. Rubbing both their cocks between warm bellies, dry friction pull of it, Dean stretches to seal his mouth over Sam’s and suck. Lips then tongue, spit wet eager, it’s raspberry tart and Sam-sweet.

Plucking at the lush of Sam’s lip with his teeth, Dean licks into the heat of his mouth but every time Sam cranes up to press back, Dean pulls away. Letting up one of Sam’s wrists to free his hand, Dean spits messy into his palm and slides it between their bodies. He’s barely got any excess hand when it comes to Sam’s cock alone, but Sam follows suit, licks his long tongue against his palm and squirms it between them pinching a nipple as he goes because it always get a whine from Dean. Callous-rough, the familiar touch of his brother’s hand closes over Dean’s fumbling both their cocks into a tight hold as Dean dips down for his mouth again.

The bed squeaks under them and Sam’s hair fans around his head as he rolls underneath Dean, muscle and heat and they’re pressed close enough Dean can feel his heartbeat. He still tastes raspberries as Sam’s mouth goes slack on a stuttered moan, spilling sticky-wet between them and the slick glide all slippery now against the heat of his cock has Dean grinding desperately while Sam’s other hand wriggles out of his grip and rests against the back of his neck, holding tight like he can pull Dean any closer, nails pricking shiver spread under his skin.

As Dean shudders through his climax on top of his brother, all he can think about is the curve of Sam’s smile against his lips and the sweet smell of the crushed berries and the stain on Sam’s mouth and the breadth of Sam’s body and these warm open-window breeze hazy rests in between the fight-for-your-life crazy they call work.

Dean wonders if the farmer’s market is still open.

Flopping over on the bed, panting, Dean stretches his legs and Sam grumbles next to him. Pulls his shirt the rest of the way up and swipes at his stomach. There’s a red stain on Sam’s boxers - pulled halfway down his thighs - where Dean had sat on him. It’ll be right at home with all the blood stains.

The Showcase Showdown is well on it’s way on screen, so Dean reaches for the remote, finds it’s not on the nightstand, paws along the floor for it and comes up triumphant. Sam blinks at him.

“Hey, d’you think the market’s still open?”

“Uh, that’s usually a weekly thing.”

“Huh. Sorry about uh, squashing your raspberries. Was gonna say we should get some more.”

Sam slaps him on the shoulder, then curls onto his side and tucks himself up against Dean like he’s still shorter and actually able to fit under Dean’s arm without his feet hanging off the edge of the bed. Which he isn’t. His head’s damn heavy too, settled on Dean’s chest, breath ghosting over skin and Sam’s hand settles on the steady rise-fall of Dean’s stomach, which gives a weak gurgle in anticipation of lunch.

Daylight comes and goes through the curtains as they shift with the breeze, and Dean’s not sure if the car-exhaust and dumpster fume air is really the best thing to air out sex funk. Turning his chin down, he can bury his nose in the soft baby brother smell of Sam’s hair, and Sam’s fingers curl a little tighter against him when he does.

On the nightstand, there’s one raspberry that looks almost whole still, so Dean stretches his arm across the bed for it, gentle, and Sam doesn’t even open his eyes when it’s dragged over his lips. Lets his berry stained mouth fall open for one more, Dean’s fingers lingering along the softness of it. Sam nudges his nose against Dean’s hand until he manages to get at Dean’s thumb, suck it into his mouth like he used to every night before bed. Like he owns it, and the person attached to it.

He kinda does.


End file.
